


Cardinal Virtues

by ellen_fremedon



Category: Bedazzled (1967)
Genre: Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2005, recipient:SJ Kasabi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-25
Updated: 2005-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-02 13:01:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellen_fremedon/pseuds/ellen_fremedon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanley does things his way. George tries his best to be a bad influence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cardinal Virtues

1.) Justice

 

George was going to and fro in the earth again.

 

In London, specifically, and through streets filled with his greatest triumphs: advertising, traffic jams, hamburger stands, tabloids-- even, straining at its leash, a miniature dachshund. He should have been proud.

 

But these sights gave him no pleasure, except for the knowledge that they surely didn't give God any pleasure either. Unless God had an even more twisted sense of humour than he thought. Which, upon reflection, seemed quite likely.

 

"Cheater," he said, with an upward glance. "You lost that wager fair and square."

 

The old woman with the dachshund looked at him as though he were a lunatic and tried to hurry past; George swept into her path.

 

"What a charming dog you have, Madam. Does it bite?"

 

"Oh, no," she lied; George leaned down to pet the foul-tempered little beast, and surreptitiously unhooked its lead from its collar.

 

"What a lovely animal. Almost as lovely as its mistress. Good evening," he said, and walked on. George heard the squealing of brakes as the dog ran out into traffic, the crunch of cars piling into each other, the old woman's shrieks, but took no joy in the sounds.

 

It was his usual reaction to boredom or disappointment, going to and fro in the earth. Or walking up and down in it, when that paled. Down first, into the nearest tube station, and then up again near Hyde Park, where he commenced some serious to-ing and fro-ing.

 

He shouldn't have been surprised that God had cheated him. That was what rankled the most, really-- that after everything, even after the Job debacle, he'd expected the omnipresent old bastard to play fair with him. "It's not like I haven't seen how You treat Your favourites."

 

In fact, in retrospect, the entire Job incident was distressingly transparent. Job had been a complete raving loony, but he'd been devoted to God. Besotted, even, so much that he'd listen raptly to God's blither about ostriches, which had always made George glaze over even when he'd still been head-over-heels with adoration for Him.

 

And what had bloody God done but tried to make him jealous? Lavishing gifts on his favourite little mortal and praising him in front of the entire heavenly host, until word had got back to him and he'd just had to go up and see for himself what all the fuss was about. And then, throughout the entire tedious summit, it had been nothing but "Look at what a perfect and an upright man Job is, Lucifer" and "Look at all the burnt offerings Job makes Me, Lucifer" and "Listen to Job sing My praises, Lucifer."

 

And, implied but not said-- "_You_ never praised Me like that, Lucifer."

 

He stopped in the middle of the path to sneer up at the heavens. "And I'm not likely to start now, am I? Bloody egotist, didn't stop to think about that, did You?" Two old men looked up from their chess game and frowned at him. He smiled back. "Excuse me, sirs. I wonder if one of you could tell me the time."

 

They squinted presbyopically at their watches, and George moved the black queen and one of white's bishops. "It's ten past six."

 

"Quarter past, I make it."

 

"Thank you, sirs. Good evening."

 

God had sicced him on Job over and over, and Job had come crawling back for more like a whipped dog. And George, stupidly, had laughed with God over the crazy mortal's crazy devotion, and not ever suspected that God might be picking up a taste for that sort of thing. "But that's been Your game all the time, hasn't it? Kick the fallen angel while he's down and watch him come back for more?" George sat down on a park bench, and began methodically splintering the seat with his pocket knife. "Not this time," he said. "Once cast into the pit of fire, twice shy. We're through, You understand?" He ran his finger appraisingly over the bench and got a sliver under his nail. He took several of God's names in vain and bit it out; blood welled over his tongue. George looked up over the rims of his glasses and narrowed his eyes at the clouds and the birds and the red rays of the setting sun and the old men shouting at each other over their chess game. "By the time I'm through down here, You'll be begging me to come back. But You can beg as long as you like; I won't fall for that again.

 

George had been the Prince of Lies too long to quite believe his own words; he knew the ultimatum for a lie as he spoke it. But God didn't need to know that. Though, omniscient bastard, he probably already did. "Not that You believe a word I'm saying, of course," George sneered at the heavens. "I'm sure You know better than that."

 

The old men had knocked over their chess table and were rolling on the ground trading blows. "Filthy cheater," one of them shouted, and broke the other's glasses. George walked on, to and fro, up and down.

 

2.) Fortitude

 

There was some comfort, in thinking of how God had cheated him and toyed with him. Knowing himself to be the wronged party helped George to bear his many trials with stoicism, and, he thought, with dignity.

 

Not least of which was the looming possibility that that little twit Stanley, once again sole owner of his soul, might achieve on his own what he'd bargained it away for. George dropped in to Wimpy's every day to renew his offer, and stayed after Stanley's polite, smiling refusal to watch Stanley ask out Margaret Spencer.

 

"Oh, Miss Spencer!" Stanley had been turned down every day for a week, but the rejections only seemed to have boosted his confidence. George supposed that at least he could be certain what was coming now. "Miss Spencer!"

 

Margaret looked up from her check pad and slowly blinked her silver-farded eyelids, clearly hoping that the rest of this conversation could take place without any effort on her part, but when Stanley only looked hopefully up at her, she gave in. "Yes?"

 

"Miss Spencer. I wondered if you'd have dinner with me tonight?" He said it without stuttering once.

 

"I'm sorry, I've already got plans. Perhaps another time."

 

And with exchange that out of the way, Stanley smiled at Margaret and Margaret smiled back, as though they had just finished some tedious but necessary task together. There was a brief trace of warmth in Margaret's smile that even her snowy lipstick could not hide.

 

Damn.

 

George slid up to the counter. "Still no luck, Stanley?"

 

Stanley smiled at him, too, and shrugged. "Patience is a virtue. You told me that." George had also told Stanley never to believe a word he said, but before he could say so, Stanley had gone on: "And you were right, too-- did you see her smile, just now? She smiled at me." Stanley's eyes seemed to focus on some far-off vision, hovering just above the Tastee-Freeze machine. "I made her smile."

 

George made a disgusted noise, and Stanley collected himself. "All right, laugh if you want to. I know it's pathetic and it's not really anything to show for six years of trying, but I said I was going to do this my way, and this is my way."

 

"And that's a very laudable, very noble way to go about it," George said firmly. "That kind of noble, selfless persistence deserves to be rewarded--"

 

"Oh, don't you even start. with that again." Stanley scraped idly at a tarry patch of grease on the cooker. "What else have you been up to today-- poking holes in old ladies' umbrellas? Tempting moths into peoples' closets?"

 

"I don't make fun of your job," George grumbled, and though he hadn't taken offense-- in fact, the moth idea wasn't half bad; he made a mental note to try it sometime-- Stanley sobered immediately.

 

"So, er. What about God? Have you seen Him again?"

 

"Stanley, you and Margaret Spencer will be surrounded by doting great-grandchildren before I darken God's door again."

 

"So, no luck then," said Stanley, and he had the nerve to look pitying.

 

3.) Prudence

 

Sometimes, George wondered what would happen if he just chucked the entire sordid business. He'd had no qualms about letting humanity take care of its own damnation when he thought he was returning to heaven, after all; and there was no reason his continued presence on Earth should hinder matters.

 

He could retire. Run his little club; sack the Deadlies and hire some good help. Maybe learn the piano.

 

He tried it one day, retirement. He went on his usual walk in the park-- to and fro, up and down-- but he took a packet of crisps with him, and sat on a bench and fed them to the squirrels. He lasted twelve minutes before the compulsion to tempt one fat little squirrel into beating up its smaller companion for a fragment of crisp overwhelmed him.

 

Half an hour later, George was out of crisps and out of retirement, but the satisfaction of a temptation well done had put him in the sort of high spirits that demanded to be shared. Stanley, he decided. He could go to Wimpy's and watch Stanley's daily rejection-- that was always fun-- and then cheer him up after.

 

Stanley was in his usual form, calling "Oh, Miss Spencer! Miss Spencer!" as soon as the place was empty of any customer but George.

 

"Yes?" she drawled. She took a long time closing her mouth, as though contemplating adding some form of address but finding neither "Stanley" nor "Mr. Moon" quite to her liking.

 

"I was wondering if you might have dinner with me Thursday week?"

 

"I'm sorry, I-- what?" Margaret Spencer gaped; George slid his glasses down his nose and squinted over the rims.

 

Stanley fingered the knot in his tie and swallowed. "I was wondering if you might have dinner with me Thursday week."

 

"Well," temporized Margaret, "I--" and "I mean," said Stanley. And then, finding himself with the floor, "I mean, if you're busy..."

 

"Oh, no," said Margaret, and then looked like she wished she hadn't.

 

"She said yes!" crowed Stanley, as soon as Margaret had climbed into her latest swain's car at the end of her shift. "George, she said yes!"

 

In fact, she'd said "I suppose so," but George didn't correct him. "Yes, I was there," said George. "Stanley, I think this calls for a celebration." They were halfway to the club before Stanley stopped capering long enough to look sideways at George.

 

"Here," he said, "you're not going to find some way to mess things up for me, are you? Send Lust in to confuse me again, or that Envy or--"

 

"Stanley, I give you my word," George said, as sincerely as he knew how, "none of my staff are invited. Just you and me."

 

Stanley smiled, but the smile had worn off by the time George slid into the club's quietest booth and set a pint in front of him. "So," said George. "To Margaret Spencer." Stanley drank, but the smile didn't return.

 

"What's the matter now, Stanley?"

 

"Well, it's Margaret," he said, staring down into his beer. "She's going out with me next week, and I still don't know how to _talk_ to her. I mean, I don't want to be an intellectual again, or anything, but I still-- I don't have an education, or know any jokes, or... what if Margaret wants to talk about, about--" He waved his hand in vague circles.

 

"History? Philosophy?" George suggested. "Theology?"

 

"Well, anything, really, except for working at Wimpy's, or moths, or what it was like to be a nun. I mean, I've been thinking all month about that question you asked me, up the telephone pole, about the tigers and the cliffs, and I still don't know the answer. What if Margaret asks me something like that?"

 

George privately thought the chance of Margaret Spencer riddling her suitors with Zen koans was vanishingly slim, but George rather enjoyed explaining things to Stanley; he listened so _intently._ "Well," George began, and Stanley looked up at him with an expression that, had George ever mastered it, might have kept him in heaven, "the response of the man in the example of the Zen master Li Kwai Kwat was to eat a strawberry."

 

"Where does he get a strawberry?"

 

"Does it matter?"

 

"Well, if he's got a peck of strawberries on him, maybe he's carrying something useful, too-- a rope, or an elephant gun, or a hang glider or something."

 

"How do you figure that? Do you often wake up and think, 'Oh, I'll just nip down to the shops for some strawberries and cream and, oh, how about a hang glider?'"

 

"Well, if I did, it'd be no odder than just happening to have some with me in the middle of a tiger hunt!"

 

George sighed. "He picks the strawberry."

 

"What, they're just growing out of the side of the cliff? Out of the rock?"

 

"It's a very hardy variety."

 

Stanley narrowed his eyes. "What happens when he eats it?"

 

George leaned across the table, with a bright, conspiratorial smile. "It tastes sweeter than you can possibly imagine."

 

"Well, how does that help?" sputtered Stanley. "He's still halfway up a cliff with a tiger on either side, about to fall and get eaten! Why does it matter if he has one last strawberry?"

 

"You tell me, Stanley," said George. "You're in a lousy job, with no money and no prospects, and in possession of a slightly dented, second-hand soul-- but you've got a date with Margaret Spencer next week. Are you trying to tell me you wouldn't eat that strawberry?"

 

"Well, I wouldn't expect it to help anything."

 

"Precisely! I think you've got it, Stanley. You've got a real flair for philosophy." George smiled widely. Stanley frowned into his beer, and kept frowning into the empty glass until George brought him another.

 

4\. Temperance

 

By the next Thursday, Stanley had worked himself up to such a high pitch of nervousness that dogs had begun to shy away from him in the street. Every day had brought some new worry, and George was quite certain he was letting Stanley's touching reliance on his advice go to his head. George took him shopping for a new shirt and tie, and Stanley obligingly tried on everything George pointed to, even if it was covered in spangles or three sizes too big. George taught him jokes, and Stanley learned them by heart and recited them solemnly. George looked through his files and warned Stanley away from no fewer than four hundred and twelve trendy restaurants whose popularity stemmed solely from their proprietors' deals with him, and not from any quality of the dining experience. Stanley sat down with George's notes and a stack of restaurant reviews, and through process of elimination found a nice, inexpensive little bistro and made a reservation.

 

"Here," he said Wednesday, looking up from the review he'd set down in front of George, "you're not going to show up there tomorrow, are you, the way you always seem to?"

 

"Never fear, Stanley," said George, "I have an appointment at the zoo that I expect will take me most of the evening."

 

"Still tempting pigeons, then? Or have you moved up to penguins now?"

 

"Oh, Stanley, I'm not bothering with such small-scale mischief anymore. I'll be at the ostrich house."

 

"Ostriches? What are you going to offer them, gold-lined nests?"

 

"If I did, it'd make God sorry he left me down here. He's crazy about ostriches. Never understood it myself-- they always seemed a bit silly to me, all gangly and long-legged and showy and..." Stanley was looking at him as though he wanted very much to laugh. George straightened the grosgrain ribbon that secured his cloak and smoothed its long velvet front, but there didn't seem to be anything amiss about his appearance.

 

Stanley swallowed down an inexplicable giggle and said, "But what are you going to do to--"

 

"I'll tell you what, Stanley," interrupted George, suddenly suspecting that Stanley would be much more appreciative of the ostrich caper hearing about it after the fact, rather than before. "Why don't you bring Margaret around to the club after dinner? Drinks on the house," and Stanley agreed happily.

 

George did think of stopping by the bistro to check up on Stanley and Margaret, but his mischief at the ostrich house took longer than he'd expected-- the locks were all quite sturdy, and he only barely managed to break them before the zoo closed in the afternoon. The ostriches seemed disinclined to escape while their keepers got them settled down for the night, and George had to skulk about until even the keepers had gone away and then lead them out of their cages and give them a good scare to send them bolting through the zoo, and then run panting after them and convince them to jump the walls, with a great deal of bobbing and kicking and gobbled snatches of ostrich-talk.

 

Once he'd got them all over the wall and through the park and into the street, though-- that was truly splendid. By the time they reached Mornington Crescent, the running ratites had gathered a train of four policemen (three on foot, one on a bicycle), seven zookeepers, three night watchmen, two angry motorists, one angry florist, one covetous hatter, most of the clientele of a small sidewalk cafe, and two entire boys' football teams and their coaches, trailing them as though the birds were so many shaggy golden geese.

 

The ostriches were finally herded into a cordoned-off section of street, but it took over an hour, and two more hours after that for the birds to be loaded into vans and returned to the zoo, and for the backed-up traffic to untangle itself and the crowds to disperse. George took full advantage, slipping through the crowd noting down names and besetting sins, sowing anger in the inconvienced and envy in the unaffected, pride in the successful ostrich wranglers and despair in the man who'd locked them in for the night, and making no fewer than fourteen mothers contemplate violence against their overstimulated children. And so George had only been at the club for a few minutes himself when Stanley came in at half-past ten-- alone.

 

George steered him to their booth and set two pint glasses on the table. "It was awful," said Stanley. "I didn't know what to say to her, and I couldn't pronounce anything on the menu, and I spilled sauce all over my new tie, and all night I was waiting for her to see right through me and get up and leave, but she just kept smiling like nothing was wrong." He downed almost half his pint in one draught. "She asked me what I did when I wasn't cooking cheeseburgers. So I told her about collecting moths, and she seemed really interested. It was half an hour before I found out she'd thought I said 'moss.' She must have thought I was a complete loony." Stanley emptied his glass in silence, and then looked up, seeming surprised for a moment to see George still sitting there. "So, what happened with the ostriches?"

 

George told the whole story, complete with comical imitations of the zookeepers, the police, the football coach, the hatter, and the ostriches, and after another pint, he had somehow segued into a Job story: "So here's this stupid little mortal sitting in the ashes, covered from head to foot with boils, and he's still singing God's praises even though his friends, by this point, just want to knock him over the head with a potsherd. And here's God, sweeping in in this bloody whirlwind to tell them all off, and not two minutes later God's got distracted by the ostriches again! It was all wild ass this and unicorn that and then once He got onto the ostriches, there was no going on until He'd dragged everyone out of the house and made them look at an ostrich and tell Him what a bloody good job He'd done with it, and how well it could run."

 

"Does God have favoural animates-- favourable intimals-- favourite animals, then?" Stanley said. He'd had rather more to drink than George.

 

"Of course he does," said George, whose own glass was distressingly empty. "Ostriches, marmosets, fruit bats, giant squid. Beetles, of course."

 

"But not moths?" Stanley sighed heavily. "That's sad."

 

"What's so sad about it?" said George. "If God had blathered on to Job about moths for hours, Job would have committed suicide. Of course, then I would have had him. Was Margaret Spencer really fascinated by your moth stories?"

 

"You don't have to sound so surprised," said Stanley, sounding hurt. "Moths can be very interesting. I collected forty specimens of Biston betularia carbonaria last year." He articulated the name with the care of the very drunk. "You know the carbonaria form is disappearing?"

 

Several pints later, they still hadn't quite got off the subject of moths. "No, no, I'm quite serious," George was saying. "He was going to make the cabbage worm turn into a wombat when it pupated. No, really. And He shows one to the host, and the rest of us are all standing there doing our very best not to laugh-- the wings always gave it away, though-- except for Michael, who's just _beaming_ and _bowing_ and falling all over himself to say what a perfectly wonderful idea it was, and, ah, some angel who shall remain nameless finally points out that it looks perfectly ridiculous and He storms off-- quite literally, stormed off, whirlwind and everything-- and Michael runs after Him and the rest of us can just hear Him ripping Michael a new one, demanding to know why he hadn't told Him how stupid an idea it was and accusing him of trying to make Him look bad in front of the host. We had hurricanes in Heaven for a solid week after that."

 

Stanley, sitting with his head pillowed on his folded arms, opened one eye. "It sounds like a miserable place."

 

"Heaven?"

 

"Yeah. Worse than working at the post office."

 

"All those ruddy angels," George agreed.

 

"So why d'you want to go back?" said Stanley. "I'd have thought you enjoyed being your own boss."

 

"Only I'm not, am I? I'm still part of God's plan, doing God's dirty work for him. I tried to retire last week and I couldn't. It's a compulsion."

 

"No, answer the question," he persisted. "Even though you remember how boring and awful it was before, you still want to go back?"

 

"Would you go out with Margaret again, if she asked you?"

 

"It doesn't matter," Stanley slurred, and yawned hugely. "She won't ask."

 

"There you are, then," said George. Stanley had closed his eyes; George glanced at his watch. "Blimey, it's ten minutes past four. Where does the time go? Come on, Stanley, get up. You can have a lie-down in my room again."

 

5\. Faith

 

Stanley was late to work on Friday, even though George, in a fit of quite terrible remorse for keeping him up so late, used his powers to whisk him across London. "Stanley," Margaret called, as soon as they walked into Wimpy's, and rushed to his side. "I want to thank you again for last night. I had a very nice time."

 

"You did?" squeaked Stanley.

 

"I did. I really liked hearing about the moths. I had no idea they were so interesting."

 

"Oh," said Stanley. "I, uh. Thank you." Margaret looked at him expectantly. "I could, er. I could show you my collection some time, if you wanted."

 

"I'd like that," said Margaret, and fifteen excruciating minutes later, they'd made another date for the next weekend, and Margaret was beaming.

 

Stanley, on the other hand, looked almost as though he'd just scheduled his own execution. "All through dinner I was praying for the floor to open up and swallow me," he said that night at the club, "and Margaret was having a very nice time." He sounded chagrined that Margaret's standards could be so low. "Here," he said, a thought passing visibly across his face, like a cloud in a clear sky, "when you pray for the floor to open up and swallow you, God doesn't actually do it, does he?"

 

"Oh, no," George said. "No, these days He usually only bothers to answer prayers when no one can see him doing it."

 

"Is that because of the whole free will thing?"

 

"No, I think He just enjoys the whole cloak-and-dagger business." Stanley sipped his beer pensively, but when the beer was gone he didn't share whatever he'd been thinking.

 

Stanley spent Friday night in George's room again. On Sunday, he went with George to the Natural History Museum and looked at the moths while George broke the axles of two prams, permanently crippled the marriage of two American tourists, mislabeled three drawers of Cambrian fauna (the investigation of which was threatening to make the careers of a whole department of promising young invertebrate paleontologists), and goaded one small child into a tantrum that would ramify, as it passed into family folklore, into years' worth of filial resentment, parental recriminations, attempted poisonings, and lucrative book contracts.

 

And with that business out of the way, George spent the afternoon telling Stanley amusing anecdotes about ichthyosaurs.

 

Stanley declined to come out to the club Saturday night. "There's, well, there's somewhere I need to go tomorrow." He looked away as he said it. Church, of course. "Thank you, though. I've had a really nice time today."

 

George found Stanley's careful avoidance of the C-word oddly charming, but not charming enough to keep the subject from dampening his spirits. He was in shallow but noticeable dudgeon when he returned to the club, and his mood wasn't helped by finding Envy in his bed, chain-smoking George's cigarettes and drinking George's brandy.

 

"Oh, it's you," said Envy. "I didn't expect you'd come in here tonight, with that little mortal gone. Another date this time, is it?"

 

"Shut up, Envy," said George. "And get out; I've told you a thousand times, trade with someone else if you don't like your room."

 

"Oh, I see," said Envy, stubbing out his cigarette. "He's coming by later, then? After he's seen his ladyfriend home and kissed her goodnight?"

 

"Oh, for-- he hasn't got a date! He's probably praying now to get hit by a bus before he does." George giggled irrepressibly. "He's probably going to go to church tomorrow and pray God to save him from the big, bad, scary girl!"

 

Envy raised his eyebrows. "Mm-hmm." He swirled the last sip of brandy in his glass, but didn't drink. "A date with Him. Ditched," he said mournfully, "for the man upstairs. Likes powerful friends, does he, ducky?"

 

George yanked back the hangings on the bed. "Remember which of us pays the bills here."

 

"Avarice, isn't it?"

 

Envy lifted the glass to his lips; George snatched it away and finished the drink. He set down the empty glass just hard enough to make his point. "Out."

 

"My, we are in a temper," said Envy, but he left.

 

Sunday morning, George put on a pristine white shirt and his best cloak and went to church. He got a good seat, up among the roof-beams where he could hear Stanley's prayers as clear as day. He tossed a few coins back and forth between his hands. "Let's see," he muttered, "a penny says he prays to stop fancying her, but sixpence says he just prays she changes her mind about Saturday."

 

But for the first time in months-- years, even-- Stanley's prayers had nothing to do with Margaret Spencer. "Dear God," he prayed, "I wonder if You might think of taking George back." George fumbled his handful of change; a penny rolled down a fold of his cloak, and he only just caught it before it could drop. "It would mean so much to him," continued Stanley, oblivious, "and even though I know he wasn't really happy there, still, I suppose he might have been as close as he's ever come. And I think that he, well, misses You.

 

"I'm not asking for anything for myself-- I think maybe I'm better off not asking for things from people, or whatever it is you are, like George and You-- but could you think about it, for George?"

 

6.) Hope

 

George stayed in the rafters of the church for some time after the service, trying to find some self-serving reason for Stanley to pray for his only friend to be disappeared from the face of the earth, but even he had to admit that the only reasons he could think of-- say, that Stanley had realized George was a bad influence and was prudently trying to put himself out of the reach of George's temptations-- were exceedingly far-fetched. Stanley's prayer seemed completely selfless.

 

Of course, performing a selfless act was self-serving, in a way. Beneficence, charity, good deeds-- it all made one feel truly marvelous. George had learnt that through experience. Maybe that was Stanley's reason.

 

Or, thought George, en route back to the club via a great many tos and fros, maybe it was all a plan of his own, one he hadn't even known he was devising. After all, he could work in mysterious ways, too. Maybe George had planned all along to return to heaven on the strength of mortal prayers. Maybe Stanley was only the first, and soon hundreds of his clients would be sending up heartfelt testimonials about how wonderful and virtuous he was.

 

But even a cursory glance through his files quickly dashed that notion. Lots of his clients were satisfied-- some had been known to bless him for the good he'd done them-- but he couldn't see even the happiest of them spontaneously, selflessly begging the God they'd renounced to take George to his bosom again.

 

And of course, George hadn't actually given Stanley any reason to be so expansive. He hadn't made him prime minister. He hadn't given him wealth, or fame, or an endowment that would shame an elephant seal. He hadn't even given him an amiable doe-eyed waitress. All he'd given Stanley was a few pints of beer and stories about Job and the time the principalities hid the ichthyosaur in Michael's bed.

 

So why should Stanley be so well-disposed toward him? George wondered about it, on and off, all night; he even tried to sleep on it, but he was too out-of-practice.

 

Monday, he spent the morning down a manhole, engineering a series of storm drain blockages that would flood a good three miles of streets in the next good downpour. As he put away his tools and changed his trousers, it struck him that he was quite well-disposed toward Stanley-- a fact which, however inexplicable on its own, at least made sense of Stanley's behavior.

 

His own was still a mystery, though. Oh, it wasn't like he hadn't had favourite mortals before, or mortal favourites-- he and Oscar Wilde had had grand times together, back in the day. And Francois Villon-- George even popped back into Hell to see him from time to time, and he wouldn't do that for just anyone. But a night out painting the town beige with Stanley Moon was hardly the sort of thrilling good times one had with someone like Oscar or Franky.

 

But then, George thought, heading toward Wimpy's out of habit, forgetting that there was unlikely to be a rejection to watch today-- but then, wasn't that all the more reason that God should pay particular attention to Stanley's prayer? Shouldn't the omniscient bastard notice that Stanley Moon wasn't the sort of mortal George usually took an interest in, that Stanley Moon stood to gain nothing-- in fact, to lose a very charming and influential friend-- if his prayer were granted? Shouldn't ruining the one bright spot in Stanley Moon's life be the sort of joke that God would particularly appreciate?

 

Not, of course, that George wouldn't laugh about with him, if he were back in Heaven. One had to laugh at His jokes. But George would try to make it up to Stanley, once he was upstairs. Listen in on a few prayers, cast some manna earth-ward.

 

And in the meantime-- well, casting any tangible manna might prejudice his case with Him; it wouldn't do to present the appearance of a quid pro quo. But there was no reason he couldn't be extra nice to Stanley. After all, if God were to get off his omnipotent buttocks and begin answering prayers for a change, George would owe him a truly staggering favor.

 

7\. Charity

 

George knew he shouldn't trust too much in the efficacy of Stanley Moon's prayers, but he couldn't suppress a glimmer of hope every time he saw Stanley. He found himself making vague plans-- it wouldn't do to have another farewell party, of course, and who knew whether he'd have enough forewarning to plan one, but there would be business to take care of-- legacies for the Deadlies, a few temptations he'd been saving up that he couldn't bear to see go to waste, that sort of thing. He'd write Stanley a letter, he decided, and giggled. A letter to be read in the event of his disappearance.

 

"Here, what's that? Is that my name?" It was Friday morning, and Stanley had woken up from his kip in George's bed, in time to see George making a few revisions.

 

"Oh, just some business matters, nothing of interest."

 

"Whose business, yours?" Stanley looked suddenly suspicious. "Have you got another wager on with God?"

 

"Oh, no. Catch me making that mistake again. No, nothing so simple." George's mouth twitched. "But it never hurts to be prepared. It's not as though He's ever kept the same two thoughts in his head for two seconds on end. You're a fickle bastard," he bellowed at the ceiling, suddenly enough to make Stanley cower. "You know that?"

 

George pulled Stanley's hands off his ears. "Oh, Stanley-- do bring Margaret round to the club after your date tomorrow. I've told Gluttony to give you whatever you want, on the house, just in case I'm not around."

 

George wasn't around much for the next couple of days-- there were temptations he'd been neglecting all around the world, adultery in America and covetousness in Canada and truly bad ideas everywhere. But he made sure he got back to London in time for Stanley and Margaret's date on Saturday.

 

Stanley had asked him not to eavesdrop on them at the restaurant, and George had given his word. But he'd said nothing about Stanley's place; he got there early and secured a good perch outside on the window ledge, where he could hear everything within, and see most of the room as well with the help of a small mirror.

 

Stanley and Margaret clattered up the stairs. There was small talk, laboured and seeming to take far more effort from both sides than the results were worth-- listening to it was like watching a tennis match between two nonagenarian paraplegics-- but when George got his mirror into place, he saw that Margaret was smiling; and Stanley, though he had a deep furrow between his eyebrows, was at least not hyperventilating or tripping over anything, though there was a near miss when Stanley pulled down his boxes of dead moths from the cupboard.

 

"Are you all right, Stanley?" Margaret steadied his elbow and caught a tray full of pinned-down lepidoptera. "You've been dropping things all evening."

 

Stanley sat down on the bed, leaving the single chair for Margaret. "I guess I'm just worried about George."

 

"Your friend in the cloak? The one who comes into Wimpy's and always orders everything on the charred side of well-done, even the Tastee-Freezes?"

 

The realization that he'd become enough of a regular at that squalid little place for the waitress to remember his preferences so overwhelmed George with horror that he didn't hear Stanley's reply. When his head stopped ringing, Margaret was saying, "What are you so worried about?"

 

"He's been talking all week about him not being around much longer-- being all mysterious, dropping hints--"

 

"Is he sick?"

 

"No, he couldn't be. But I'm afraid he might be going away. He's excited about something. I-- well, I hope for his sake that he is-- it'd mean a lot to him-- but I'd like to have a chance to, you know, see him off."

 

Had he really been that transparent? That would simply not do, thought George.

 

Stanley stared morosely at the window; George lowered the mirror until he looked away. "So," said Margaret brightly, "tell me about your moths."

 

She pulled her chair up to the side of the bed, and they looked at Stanley's moth collection. He was even more partial to Biston betularia than God was to ostriches. Halfway through the stack, Stanley looked up and smiled apologetically. "I'm afraid the rest of it is really just more of the same. I mean, it's mostly all betularia from here on down."

 

"Oh. Is it?" Margaret had leaned in very close to read Stanley's tiny, cramped handwriting on the labels.

 

"So, I don't suppose there's much point in looking at the rest. You've seen the best ones already."

 

"No, I don't suppose there is." Stanley might have kissed her.

 

But instead, he told her, "I've had a lovely night, Margaret. Thank you." And stood up and fetched her coat and umbrella.

 

Margaret turned a level, reassessing sort of look on him; it was the first glimmer of intelligence George had seen in her face. "It's still early," she said, in an offhand sort of way. "Didn't you say your friend wanted to meet us at some club?"

 

Stanley blushed, but he stood his ground. "No, I think I-- I need to get up early tomorrow, for church." The furrow in his brow deepened. "Besides," he said, "George said he might not even be there tonight..." Stanley blinked, then held the door open for Margaret, and she bowed to the inevitable and walked through it. George down the drainpipe; when he dropped into the shadows outside the street door, Stanley was coming down the stairs. He'd given Margaret his arm, quite chivalrously, but he was not escorting her so much as frog-marching her to the door.

 

"Good night, Margaret."

 

"Good night, Stanley. We should do this again sometime," she said-- a little sadly, as though she didn't think it were likely.

 

As soon as she was out the door, Stanley turned and pelted back up the stairs. No doubt for his own umbrella; it was raining heavily and the streets were swimming with water.

 

George intercepted Margaret at the corner, holding his umbrella over her while she got hers open. "Miss Spencer, wasn't it? Allow me." He offered her his arm and walked her across the drowned pedestrian crossing.

 

"Yes-- thank you-- Stanley was just talking about you tonight," she said. "He's very worried about you."

 

"Stanley does worry, doesn't he?" said George.

 

"He does," Margaret agreed. "I think it's rather sweet."

 

"And how are you and Stanley getting on?" George unfurled his own umbrella with a flourish.

 

"I really don't know. He's such a gentleman, it's hard to tell." She looked up from under her umbrella. "It's nice, though, just to be able to sit and talk about moths and things, and not worry all the time about-- about other things."

 

"Oh, yes," said George, fighting down another giggle. "Those terrible other things. Yes, you're well quit of them. Good night, Miss Spencer." He snapped his fingers with a panache that was wasted on the empty street. "Julie Andrews!" he cried, and flew back to the club to intercept Stanley.

 

By the time Stanley arrived, George had found the letter and burnt it. His ascension wouldn't leave Stanley completely friendless and alone-- and in any case, if God hadn't already come down here to afflict Stanley with boils and lectures about ostriches, He wasn't going to torment him by taking George back.

 

George poured himself two fingers of brandy and sighed. The self-delusion was always the most tedious part of the whole Prince of Lies business.

 

"Have you been trying to burn the place down?" Stanley hovered in the doorway of George's room, nose wrinkling.

 

"Stanley, how nice to see you. Did you bring Margaret?" He poured another drink for Stanley.

 

"No. No, she's gone home. It was-- we had a nice time, but I was worried about you." He took offered glass and frowned at the look on George's face. "You're not going back, are you?"

 

"Not a chance." It came out rather less flippant than George had meant it to.

 

Stanley shook his head. "George, all your stories about heaven and God and all that, they're all about how much you hated it up there, how bored you were with all the praising and the adoring."

 

"I wouldn't have been so bored if I'd been on the other side every now and then," George said. "All I wanted was to be loved. Adored. Worshipped, just a little. What's wrong with that, I ask you?"

 

"Plenty, if you think you're going to get it from God," said Stanley.

 

George set down his glass and caught Stanley's face in both hands, so he could study it properly. "Stanley Moon. You've become a cynic. I'm so proud of you!"

 

Stanley squirmed out of his grasp. "I mean it, George. You know you'd be miserable in heaven. Can't you admit it, and just... be George?"

 

"Could you just stop wanting Margaret Spencer?" said George. "After all this time, just stop, like that?"

 

Stanley coloured, and looked down at his feet. "I think I sort of have."

 

"Oh," said George. And a moment later, "Well." And then he set down his glass and said, "I think that calls for a celebration. Let me get you another drink, and I'll tell you all about the good times I used to have with Oscar Wilde."


End file.
